.....

it's time to take a while to recline on the isle:
a well deserved rest in a sapphic cemetary.
an observation of the marriage between
self-loathing and masturbation
inspires change in those that want it.
do not forget to book your return tickets;
this is a nice place to visit,
but it's no place to live.

ode to a poet

Last night i went swimming with Sylvia.
The water cold, the waning moon,
her hand in mine, the tide was high.
We went out too far, the bottom dropped;
we should have drowned but
the ocean rejected us.

Her failed attempts, the same as mine
are meant to happen at a specific time.

Twice came death, we laughed and joked;
twice the waters rose - we coughed, we choked.
It was then that suddenly i woke,
i left Sylvia doing the dead man's float.

Tomorrow night, i swim alone.
My black thoughts will sink as stones.

Self portrait

there is a man who sings to himself
as he produces songs for the public.
he doesn't know the weight of his words
as he spews prophetic poetry
to anyone who'll listen.

he has bright eyes and a bushy tail
and he greets each morning with
rings on his fingers and bells on his toes;
there is no funding for the arts
just the beating of bruised and broken hearts.

there is a girl who cannot keep a straight face
as she looks into the eyes of the public.
she doesn't know the gravity that pulls her
as she poses and postures
for everyone to stare at.

she has brittle bones and a blackened soul
and she greets her evenings with
rings on her fingers and bells on her toes;
there is no funding for the arts
just the beating of bruised and broken hearts.